Our journey on this sphere is limited in
time. Cliché, yes, but true. I think so much about life
and its ending now that I
am old enough for a senior discount. Some say–
“I won’t write to her, let
our sister be alone. She made her choices,” but me,
I can’t. I’ll keep reaching out and come
to the end, hopefully more healed and closer.
What happens in those in-between odd and even
years that breaks relationships? if
we knew would we fix it?
It is bitterness and apathy that kills
not forgiveness and love, which I choose for me
What will fill this need?
To the voices heed?
Commune
Plant in love the seed
Grow at great speed
Festoon
Spirit at last freed
Climbing up to feed
Blue Moon
I have been meaning to write a poem using the lai form, since I read one by Kat Apel here. I gave it a try using this photo as she climbs the ladder to this week’s blue moon.
Concerned
Commission of a
Crime together
in Fulton County,
Georgia.
Conspired and
Endeavored to
Conduct racketeering
in violation of
O.C.G.A. § 16-14-4(b)
Contrary to the laws–
The good order
Peace
And
Dignity
I gasped at the vastness,
it seemed as large as
the parking lot at Walmart.
Only there was
no pavement and
no painted lines and
no RVs free camping and
no shopping carts running amuck and
no conspiracy theories.
In fact, there was no solid ground,
except under my feet,
and the view was breathtaking
and reminded me to stop
and reevaluate
before I fell into oblivion.
Daylight beckons me
watching
running
spilling out of darkness
the day begins with
breezes of breath
tears of joy
crags of a life
well-lived
without regrets.
The birds are
playing and
humming their songs
sometimes screeching,
but always authentic.
Oh, to be like a bird
on the wing of this new day.
Inspired by Max Richter – “On the Nature of Daylight”
so much depends upon
the teal and cinnamon cruisers
with their elk-antler handlebars elbowed in on the cobblestone bridge
with the row houses jacketing the street
and our satisfied tremors of delight
as we clamber up onto the bikes.
I wish I had a photo of the little holes in the closet wall in our den when I was a child. After removing the rag bag and iron and spray water bottle and what-have-you, I could crawl up on the shelf into my closet; it was at about waist high to an adult. There were some decorative holes on the back of a curio shelf on the other side of the wall. They were perfectly situated for me. When I was sitting on my closet shelf, it was a perfect secret agent perch to look out at the goings-on of my family. I was the captain of a ship peering through the spyglass. I was taking detective notes. I was making subtle noises to try to get family members to wonder what they heard. It was my closet and no one could have convinced me otherwise.
Maybe I should make a new
sign for tomorrow. Today
I got enough dog food
and water to last awhile.
(Actually, how am I going to carry this bag of dogfood
when the store closes and I have to go “home”?)
She looked at me
and saw my sign,
“Need dog food and water”
and the dogfood and water
that someone bought me earlier.
She kept walking. I
do need another sign,
but what if she stopped and talked to me?
It’s pretty hot out here, I know.
She just got out of her A/Ced
car and she went into Von’s–
they have A/C too.
It’s hot out here.
9:00 p.m. Hour 16
Dictionary Entry
Poetry Marathon
Definitions:
verb
to create confidence
to whisper creativity
to meet and bless a worldwide poetry community
to climb expectations
as in We’ve been Poetry Marathoning for 15 hours so far.
noun
1. a chapbook full of admirable achievements Bring on the Poetry Marathon!
2. a day of hope in the life of a poet It’s been a Poetry Marathon day.
3. a gift of love from Caitlin and Jacob Thank you for that Poetry Marathon.
10:00 p.m. Hour 17
Stop Kaleidoscoping Me
I’m a beautiful form watcher
or as the Greeks would say
Kalos – eidos – scopos
I know you love my
reflective symmetry,
but stop grinding my wheel!
They arrived at dusk.
It was light
enough to see them gather
and crowd in along
the electrical wiring
above the ancient
Road house.
When the little old woman
fell, they swooped in on her doing
what carrion crows do, even
though
she’s yet to die
and begin the rotting process.
Midnight Hour 19
Yellow Sand
It’s an eerie chromatic primary land
where red are trees and yellow is sand
1:00 a.m. Hour 20
Disrupted Sleep
Going to bed every night is such a treat
I lotion up my body, floss and brushes
Then jump in bed, nestle up to sleep
But today, every hour my alarm rushes
2:00 a.m. Hour 21
Running
Running :
for cover :
into the ground :
around in circles :
running a temp : a foul :
a tab : hot and cold :
on empty : wild :
out the clock :
Running
3:00 a.m. Hour 22
Appian Way Pizza
Not to be confused with the road in Italy,
this Appian Way came in a box.
Not a pizza box, but a box right on the pantry shelf.
“Make your own for only 55¢” was their slogan.
It was always a special night
if our parents were going out
and we got to make our own pizza.
4:00 a.m. Hour 23
A World Away
The soldiers rally on, working to defeat the intruders.
After a late night invasion, the attack is doubled.
The forces surround the invaders, like skin tight around a sphere
The capture are conquer, divide, and dismember
They are sent out to do the bidding of King Acid.
In the world of Stomach, battles fire up, then cool.
something I always write about.
In fact, in a quick search, I used hope in
three poems in the last 24 hours: here and here and here
(And seven times the last time I did a Poetry Marathon.
And, on my blog, don’t get me counting. I seem to include
Hope more than anything else.) Hope is here,
the perfect little handful of a word.
A perfect world-full remedy to heal our brokenness.
If we lose hope, we’ll fall out of the sky,
plucked like Emily’s thing without the feathers.
On Saturday evening, night and Sunday during the day, I participated in The Poetry Marathon. It began at 9:00 a.m. Eastern Time, 4:00 p.m. Arabia Standard Time. I tried to write at least 24 poems in 24 hours. I inadvertently started cheating by writing my poems early. I had read that you could take a break to sleep, so I began working ahead. However, that is a no-no, so I redid Hours 9-12. As a result, I learned some things about the Poetry Marathon and ended up writing 28 poems in 24 hours.
Here are my rough-draft, sleep-deprived poems.
#24 Tanaga to Close
My journey began and ended with a tanaga.
Home is becoming unstuck
Looking forward to awestruck
Sweet-hope home is through the door
Not “place”, but love we adore
#23 Grandma’s Blessings
Blessings for these things:
the prayers you prayed for me,
the Mad Magazines you bought for me,
the freedom to explore anywhere,
the macaroni and cheese, please, that
had a pound of cheese any kind
a stick of butter
2 cups of bread crumbs
4 cups of milk
a dribble of oil and some flour
all in a package of macaroni
a mess thrown into the oven
a push toward early cardiac death,
but we were drowned in cheesy goodness.
the visible becomes light
Awake, O sleeper,
Arise from the dead
and Christ will shine on you.”
Wake yourself,
you who have drunk from
the hand of the LORD
the bowl
the cup of staggering.
Awake, awake,
put on your strength
for no more shall come in the unclean
Arise, your light has come,
and the glory of the LORD
the sun of righteousness
has risen upon you.
with healing in its wings.
Wake from sleep.
For salvation is nearer to us now
than when we first believed.
A found poem based on these Bible verses: Ephesians 5:14; Isaiah 51:17; Isaiah 52:1; Isaiah 60:1; Malachi 4:2; and Romans 13:11.
#21 An Ode to My Spice Cabinet
My spice cabinet, filled to the brim with sweet and savory magic, you are a wonder.
The grinder and you have taught me to make my own masalas–chai, garam, Arab and Chinese five-spice. You open doors of the possible and make my cooking soar to summits I never knew possible.
You give me confidence to measure by the spoonful. Not the wimpy sprinkling of my past cooking life, the bland life I had before I came to know you.
Occasionally one of your mismatched recycled jars escapes when nudged too far. If it’s plastic it will bounce delighted across the floor; if glass, it goes out with gusto and flair–filling the kitchen with aromatic joy for a day or two.
Thank you, spice cabinet, for filling my world with color, aroma, flavor, and beauty.
Wow, be sure to read this beautiful Ode to Shea Butter by Angel Nafis.
#20 Outside
It’s an oven outside
The air mostly hot, still,
what you might expect
at noon near the summer
solstice on a desert island.
Onions are frying in ghee
for someone’s lunch,
making my mouth water.
I notice the oleander,
nature’s poison,
wondering again why they are
so widely used for landscaping
in family gardens here.
I wanted to sit and observe nature.
Shade was not to be found, though, so
I kept walking and went to school
to pick up a letter of recommendation
our departing principal had readied for me.
I sat outside after, enjoying some welcome
shade–the first I had seen.
I read the letter. Along with a lot of
Denise’s there was also one Angela tucked in,
a stray from a previous letter, cut-and-pasted.
I returned it to the secretary. She’ll get it fixed.
The birds seemed to be enjoying the shade
of the jasmine tree and delighting in the promise
of the fruit-laden palms.
Between my cell phone, the kitchen, and my love seat
half my day passes. It is well past half a century.
I live in a land where Arabic is the language of
music and the streets.
I listen to the language’s sing song rhythms, even though
I only catch an occasional meaning in the volley around me.
I see two sides battling for my inner life.
I read stories about faith and hope and life and love and I am nurtured.
I like to write poems and letters and blog posts that no one reads.
Beside me is my partner, faithful and true.
I’m no longer able to make my mark here, but I have passed the torch
and I am content and at peace.
I like a listening ear
and spicy milk tea.
Sometimes at the sea, the miniscule waves speak to me and I am comforted.
I love working with children as they learn, create, and find their voices.
Every Friday I eat baked salmon and have a day of rest.
I am not unaware of my privilege.
I’m truly not a child of the moon,
of which Mick Jagger sang,
but a child of the Son,
and not all the plans God has for me
are met in this life that—so far—
still belongs to me.
My country freed itself from one evil. I wish
another liberation would follow.
Could I help in this? I don’t know.
Come, sit here with me awhile.
No need to speak, little one.
No rush. Listen to the hush.
I have stories true to tell.
#17 Safer With Books
He read the whole plan in a book
He intended to ease himself into the water at midnight
No one would have to know or blame themselves
They would spend time looking
but the plan was perfection
marked with science,
enzymes and bacteria
He loved readying the arrangements
His body would never be found
It worked perfectly for the antagonist,
and he’d been planning it for weeks,
There were no missing links from the
author’s description
for this painless goodbye.
He had always assumed he was safer with his books,
But that night, they were waiting for him on the bridge,
And he finally realized it wasn’t true that books
are safer than people.
He let them carry him home.
“Books were safer than other people anyway.” – Neil Gaiman
#16 The Sound of Tea After a Wakeful Night of Poetry
Glug, glug, glug
the water fills the mug.
Swoosh, splash, plop,
hubby pours it in the top.
Hum, rattle against the metal.
boils the soon-to-be tea in the kettle.
Gurgle, bubble, ease,
Poured gently over the leaves.
“Tea, my queen?”
he says with a bow and caffeine
#15 Yes
Yes, is such a hope-filled word
I wish I had said Yes to Brant
when he was tangled in
the emotions of being an
8-year-old from a broken family.
Yes, to being the kind of teacher
that gave him permission to be
“naughty” (whatever that means)
Yes, to a memory of him not
shaking his head no.
#14 Imaginary Children
I remember
Blossom who kept me company when Dad was angry
she sang “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” lazily and merrily
and tried not to be scared, so I could be brave
I remember
taking Blossom with me to kindergarten that first day
when I had to leave my twin baby brothers
wondering if anyone would remember to give them bottles
I remember
when Blossom refused to raise her hand for the bathroom
so she wet her pants and I covered for her
embarrassed for a moment that I had a friend like her
I remember
when a new girl at school wet her pants
I asked her if she wanted to play at recess
I think that was Blossom’s last day
#13 Haiku
Rainbow-skinned orange
Slice painted on the cloudy
Canvas, full of hope
#12 Redo
I read of a call for poems about World Food Day with inspiring, forward-looking messages against hunger. You can read more about it on Laura Shoven’s blog if you are interested. I’m drafting a poem here for the Poetry Marathon.
Quivering, savage, ravaging pain
Intolerable, mean, and fierce
Hunger hollowing inside–
But a just full world can
drive off hunger’s pangs
Honest eating
to recharge;
Aching
halts
#12 I Am Metaphor Poem
This poem is inspired by one by Stacey Joy on the Ethical ELA Open Write last week. She wrote a lovely I Am poem based on metaphors about herself.
I am the cooing pigeon
Gentle and humble
I am the yip-howling coyote
Stealthy yet bold
I am the full fruit bowl
Sweet and giving
I am secure blue and sequin
Color of sand and sea
I am a door to home
Open and inviting
I am Solomon
Wise and open
I am a member of the upside down kingdom
Where love, justice and forgiveness win
so much depends upon
the rock pile skyscraper
against the
periwinkle sky
spread with
streaks of sourdough
cloud formations
and, of course,
that sunrise,
always a sunrise of good hope
First line taken from William Carlos Williams ‘The Red Wheelbarrow’. Prompt – Use at least five of these words/phrases: Forest Ranger, Skyscaper, Periwinkle, sourdough, Cloud, needle, gumboots, beat, spread, storefront)
#11 Twenty Questions
This prompt came from one of my favorite teacher-poets, Allison Berryhill. It’s called Twenty Questions.
Twenty Questions
What if I would have been a seeker of justice my whole life long?
What if I didn’t punch Sharon S. in the nose?
What if I didn’t chase Mark B. around the playground and call him Hole in the Heart?
What if I would have been the nice girl instead of the scared mean girl?
Would I have had more friends? Less friends?
What if Jesus wouldn’t have saved me from myself?
What if he didn’t forgive me?
What if I never forgive myself?
What if I had said yes the first time Keith asked me to marry him?
Would we be divorced now?
What if I had got that National Geographic internship, instead of the “indeed, you were a finalist” letter? Would Keith have waited for me?
What if I had learned to speak Spanish those few times that I toyed with trying?
What if I didn’t try to make my kids eat?
What if I would have made time when I thought I didn’t have time?
What if I could do things differently? Would I?
What if I could be better? Would I?
Did I already ask that?
#10 Redo
A Blitz About Counting
Count your chickens
Count your eggs
Eggs of potential
Eggs of hope
Hope in the future
Hope to grow a family
Family of freedom
Family of reconciling
Reconciling misunderstandings
Reconciling brokenness
Brokenness of thin skin
Brokenness of pride
Pride in perfection
Pride in knowing
Knowing what it takes
Knowing when to give
Give a bundle of tears
Give a lifetime of change
Change to become better
Change to be new
New not just what I do
New inside–who I am
Am I on the road?
Am I the only one?
One of these days
One of these ways
Ways of growing
Ways to shine
Shine in joy
Shine in the light
Light of His countenance
Light of His grace
Grace to carry on
Grace to be whole
Whole and complete
Whole newness restored
Restored to life
Restored to collaborate
Collaborate for teamwork
Collaborate for justice
Justice to count loss
Justice to count costs
Costs of delaying truth
Cost of sharing pain
Pain of a soured world
Pain of a shrouded grave
Grave that was overcome
Grave now full of life
Egg to chicken life
Hatred overcome
From “Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.” The Blitz form
Paucity
When something is lacking or
needing more
when there is only a bit
of any particular thing
a deficit of dimes for the coin collector,
a scarcity of snakes for the snake lover,
a shortage of shoes for your tired feet
a dearth of earths for the whole wide world–
then we can say there is a paucity of that thing.
Everything around you is
a plaything,
at the park
a magical, generous, glorious,
windowful, open stream of joy.
Sitting in the tunnels,
worn smooth from years of
children sliding, crawling, playing,
imagining, creating, resting inside
These concrete cylinders were painted in
bright primary colors–red, blue, yellow–
free, generous, worthwhile, relaxing,
Saved from an inelegant assignment of
stopping floods in a culvert somewhere.
Instead, they merrily, merrily
serve as playthings.
Everything around you is a plaything
at the park.
#8 Normal
Normal who throws going out to dinner
around like we never forgot
and asks, how’s it going?
who is ever changing
and wears different gear each season
who sometimes is busy every hour
and sometimes has nothing to do but overeat
until we finally can’t seem to recognize her
whose little eyes are clouded
and acts surprised that we don’t remember
who used to go on day after day
is finished
is she a hug and a handshake
or is she a mask and hand sanitizer?
is she justice and mercy
or is she fear and anger?
Normal is hiding in the closet
and hasn’t talked to me in years
she doesn’t live here now
will she ever move back
or is her time passed?
Inspired by Prompt for Hour 7 and Sandra Cisnero’s “Abuelito Who“.
Stride
to find
all the hopes
promised in arriving ready
Strong
#6 Bathtime
I have a list of poems I wanted to try, so some of these are getting a workout for The Poetry Marathon. Here was a sweet poem from Buffy Silverman called “Rainbow-Colored Springtime.” She wrote this sweet rhythm with each line ending with time. There are six stanzas. Click the link to read the rest:
Red time
Green time
tiny on a tree time
I decided to use one of the photo prompts from earlier to write about taking a bath.
Release bath
Embrace bath
Tensions down the drain bath
#5 Scary Poem
Oh my goodness. It is only 7:00 p.m. here, but I’m already slap happy. I just grabbed a scary book off the shelf and will use the last line. Here goes nothing…
No Witnesses
It was the first time the roof of the
emerald convertible had ever been opened.
They were honeymooners and
borrowed the car from a temperate old uncle.
They wanted the full experience.
The roof folded back with one magical click
of a button on the dash.
They rode carelessly,
willy-nilly
happily down Highway 1
toward Big Sur,
feeling the breeze in their hair
Eating their favorite
Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and roasted almonds
laughing at each other’s jokes,
like they were the best comedians,
thinking they were each the luckiest
person alive.
They both agreed when
they saw the stranded motorist.
They had time to help.
Maybe he needs a charge.
Yeah, for his phone or his car.
We can enjoy the view over the cliff
while we’re at it.
Hello, can we help?
The man leaning into the VW bus
stood up quickly and said,
Nah. Everything’s fine.
Really, we’ve got all day.
We can help. It’s kind of deserted out here.
Nah, I’m good.
The happy couple
got out of the car
and walked over to the bus.
The man tried to slide the door closed,
but the bloody arm slipped out
just before the door latched.
Oh, sir. I’m sure she needs help.
May we call the doctor?
It didn’t take long to deal with the
naïve and nosy couple.
This time, there would be no witnesses.
My last line was the last line in Lies of Silence by Brian Moore
#4 Zentangle
On Friday, I read a lot of Zentangle poems. A zentangle poem is a blackout or erasure poem, a sort of found poem with designs made on the unused portions, instead of just blacking out the extra words. Read more about it on this post from Kat Apel. I have spent some time each of the first few hours of the Marathon on my first Zentangle poem.
The Poem:
After
After, write a chapter,
words and lines use summary.
Words describing a story,
a visual, a communicator
ready to ready thinking,
solution,
parroting powers of description
in writing.
It doesn’t mean much, haha! It was from a page in a booklet of After Reading Comprehension Activities I put together for my undergrad education students one year.
#3 Pantoum
These hours are flying by
How can we get anything else done?
Will I really stay up all night
Writing poems each hour?
How can we get anything else done?
Cooking, eating, outings–they warned me
Writing poems each hour
Will more than fill my day!
Cooking, eating, outings–they warned me
No time for these things today
Will more than fill my day
With The Poetry Marathon
Brilliant reflections
Sunrise on the soul of the Deep
What will protect the sea?
The soul of the Deep
when all that is left
are marine research venues
with beautiful architecture
“the world’s only submarium” the fliers say
The soul of the Deep
is surely more than seven shark types
among the thousands of other sea creatures
More than two and a half million
litres of water and 87 tonnes of salt…
But…
read the reflection in the mirror
Who will protect the sea?
